


Bad days

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Hatred, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 11:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18622459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Sometimes, Anton has bad days.





	Bad days

Sometimes, bad days happen. Anton drives himself to absolute exhaustion, and often he doesn’t stop simply because he doesn’t notice himself being drained. And then he finds himself so low in every sense, physically, emotionally, mentally.

And his anger is still eating him up, turned upon him. For being “lazy”, for letting his kiddies down…

And yet he can’t bring himself to get up, get off the bed, no matter how much he curses himself. He just wants to sleep for three decades. A failure, what was he thinking? He will never help anyone, he will never help _himself_. Everything he has accomplished is nothing. Easily undone.

He knows it’s unproductive, to beat himself like this, but he can’t stop, and it only fuels his anger at himself. Spiraling down, amplifying. He hates himself for not seeing the signs and he hates himself for falling ill like this and he hates himself for hating himself…

“What’s wrong, Tosha?”

He startles from Vik’s voice and from a soft touch to his naked shoulder. And he curses himself — again — but now it’s for allowing Vik to see him like this. What if Vik despises him for this weakness? What if the Director decides he’s not worth the time and resources?..

“Stop it. You are poisoning yourself.” A commanding tone. Maybe it works on everyone else.

“Fuck off.”

“Tosha.” A change in the tone, softer now. “You are being difficult and contrarian.”

“I hate you,” he breathes into the pillow, fingers curling under it on a knife handle. “You kill my people, you despise me and you’d rather see me behind the bars and I don’t know why you are here.”

The silence rings, and then Vik’s cold, quiet voice rings louder: “Don’t you.”

He hopes. He hopes that now, finally, it has snapped and it will be over. He hopes that Vik will leave and never return and everything will be easy, they will be just enemies. Anton will be able to breathe.

He wants to breathe.

He needs Vik to breathe.

He loves Vik so much, and _that_ is the poison in his blood. And if Vik leaves, he’d have only one option left, to hate the Director with nothing else. Well, with a dash of respect, maybe.

He won’t pace his way through the nights, trying and failing to find ways to make it work. Or just pacing away the desire to track Vik and see him, catch a single glimpse of him. Pacing away the desire to curl up on the bed with Vik and stay like that for three decades and watch Vik gray even more. To grow old together.

He can’t have that.

Maybe it’s over.

To never again cause Vik to smile with a short remark, to never curl his fingers over those shoulders, to never command and see Vik shudder before obeying or, if the day is just right, Vik being stubborn in reply to a command. To never bring Vik flowers again and see a small frown, as though Vik never expects anything for himself. He has so little, he expects so little that Anton wants to give him the whole world.

Why does he want the only man he can never be with?..

His whole body seizes up and his eyes burn when a soft kiss is placed to the open nape of his neck.

“I’ll make you hot chocolate, Tosha.”

(The unevenly cropped, unruly hair tickling his skin in passing.)

The sounds of Vik’s movements are painfully familiar, a pang in his chest: soft steps, the rustle (Vik taking off his jacket), the muffled dry clack (Vik taking off his shoes). Even softer steps to the kitchen. The rush of water from the tap. The heavy sound of a filled kettle put back onto its base, then a click of it being turned on. A creak of a cupboard being opened, the metallic sound of a lid on the chocolate jar unscrewed. Another cupboard, and a mug lowered on the counter.

He hauls himself off the bed, not because he’s feeling like a bad host (Vik is not a guest here), but because he’d think worse of himself if he doesn’t. He picks the robe — the peony one — off a chair, even though Vik would probably not comment if he pads around only in pajama pants. He just has to. He feels old and frail and it only adds to his anger. He slides his hands into the sleeves, the silk soft and yet irritating, and searches for the belt. He tries to wrap it around, but it’s stuck in a knot, and he yanks and yanks and knows he’s making it worse, why won’t it—

Cold hands catch his. “Tosha, stop. You will tear it.”

“It’s just clothes,” he grits through clenched teeth, but lets go of the belt. It burns. Everything burns inside, a hot ball with spikes in his chest.

Vik undoes the knot, then closes the robe properly and wraps the belt around his waist and ties carefully. “It’s your favorite. Tosha. You are allowed to have bad days. You are allowed to not be at your best.”

“When I’m not at my best, people die.”

“Tosha, you are dramatizing it. Nobody will die today.”

“Mhm.”

“ _Tosha_. If you don’t let yourself rest, you will be not at your best longer.”

“Is this some kind of revenge? For when _I_ don’t leave _you_ alone?”

“If you want.”

But it’s different, Anton tells himself. On Vik’s “bad day” Vik physically can’t get up. On his bad day, everything piles up: a debilitating migraine, a meltdown, and aches in his very bones. Vik needs routine, stability — things that his job undermines. He can go on for long ignoring that, but it leads to an inevitable crash.

It’s different here. Anton is just lazy.

“Tosha, there’s nothing wrong with needing rest.”

He hates Vik for the gentle tone — gentle but not pitying.

“Right back at you, Vitya.”

Vik’s lips are a tight line.

He sighs, runs a hand over his head. “Am I allowed to be an ass, Vitya?”

“Just this once.”

“Fuck you very much.”

At least it makes Vik’s lips curl a little — and the light of the smile is in Vik’s eyes, too. Vik is very good at controlling his face, and one has to look into his eyes, and even then one has to look very closely.

Anton knows how to look.

The kettle in the kitchen clicks, turning off.

“Тоша.”

“Да, родной?” He winces, but Vik doesn’t seem fazed.

“Материться тебе к лицу.”

He nearly chokes on the air, heat crawling up his neck, and murmurs, “Ну что за херню ты несешь?”

Vik smiles — the light in his eyes and the crow’s feet. “Глядя на тебя, обычно ожидают грубости, уж прости, — но ты опутываешь такими разговорами, что дух захватывает, усыпляеешь внимание… А затем добиваешь высокоинтеллектуальным матом. Чтобы материться, как ты, надо обладать огромным словарным запасом и творческими способностями.”

He shakes his head. The light in Vik’s eyes doesn’t fade.

“Ты отвешиваешь комплименты, как пощечины.”

The light flares brighter. “Я много тренируюсь.”

He cups Vik’s cheek, and the light softens, Vik’s whole face softens. His expressions when he’s around most people are so _much_ , though actually, come to think of it, they are on par with most other people. But when he’s around people he… trusts, when he doesn’t need to keep the mask, Vik is so subtle. Anton has to pay attention all the time to notice the shifts — and he does notice. Because he’s watching all the time.

Vik presses his face into his palm, and he brushes his thumb over the high cheekbone. Vik looks so young when his face is lit up by that genuine smile that hides in the eyes.

“Прости, Витенька. Я немного…” He sighs.

“Я знаю. Ничего. Ты устал, тебе нужно отдохнуть.”

“Сколько ни отдыхай, не поможет.”

“Ничего. Я останусь с тобой, если хочешь, Тоша.”

“Хочу. Очень хочу. Но я буду… Злым.”

“Ничего. Я стерплю.”

“Не хочу, чтобы ты терпел.”

“А я не хочу, чтобы ты казнился.”

He presses himself to Vik’s chest (it’s a turtleneck kind of day and Vik is all bones and lean muscle underneath), needing Vik, needing to _not_ be snappy. Wraps his arms around the narrow waist. Vik is so ridiculously tall.

Vik’s hands settle on his shoulder blades, cold through the silk.

“Я скучал, Витенька.”

“Я тоже соскучился. Там чайник согрелся. Я обещал сделать тебе шоколад.”

“Обещания надо выполнять.”

It’s still a bad day. But it doesn’t look like it will never end.


End file.
